Problem Child
by AnonymousLily
Summary: Mrs. Muir attempts to straighten out a difficult grandchild. OC & OC pov. Complete. Nothing graphic but mature theme.


Every family has its secrets.

I had a sufficiently normal childhood: a mother, a father, four older siblings and an endless array of aunts, uncles, and cousins. My father was an Italian Catholic from the Bronx, my mother a New England WASP from a small family. I believe she enjoyed marrying into a huge tribe of demonstrative people. Her father had died when she was only five, and she and her brother were raised by my grandmother. It sounded so lonely to me as a child.

My grandparents on my father's side of the family were very present in our lives, but my grandmother on my mother's side we rarely saw unless we traveled down to the podunk little town she settled in after Grandpa died. Things were too busy to visit much. I hardly knew her. She was this quiet, elegant old lady who wore pearls and high heels just around the house. It was as if time had stopped and she was stuck in the past.

Her house was amazing: beach front with this quirky nautical tone. I loved to visit, but Mom would send us all out so she could have "quiet time" with Grandma, which robbed me of a sense of who she was.

Me, I'm the black sheep of the family, the quiet moody one in a family of people who scream at each other and then follow it up with bone crushing hugs. As a teenager, I snuck out to a fraternity party, feeling very sophisticated. Unfortunately, I accepted every alcoholic beverage offered and wound up as the evening's entertainment. It was my fault: I chose to go and I chose to accept those drinks. I told no one.

It triggered a self destructive tendency. Drugs and alcohol helped me to feel good. My parents tried their best but living in the city provide ample opportunity for me to indulge. I went from being the quiet easy one to a problem child. My parents decided a change of scenery might jolt me out of my downward spiral. They sent me to Grandma Muir for the summer.

When I was a kid, I would've loved the opportunity to stay in that funky house for the summer, but as a teen, it felt like they were sending me to Siberia. Grandma Muir wasn't like the Canestroni side of the family; she was a recluse.

* * *

When I arrived, she greeted me like the prodigal son with lobster and cake and cola, so I knew she knew exactly how bad I had become. Over dinner she cheerfully announced I could decide between two jobs for the summer, either bussing tables at Norrie's Lobster House or shelving books at the library. She'd be glad to drive me both ways. She also had a hand written list of local groups I might be interested in, earth shattering activities like the chess club or the girls' softball team. I was not, however, to leave Gull Cottage without her permission and a detailed agenda. Right. I remember thinking how underneath that pleasant face a cold old bitch lurked.

She must've had the patience of a saint to deal with my sullen ingratitude. I bussed tables at Norrie's. I did well enough that I was promoted to server, which gives some indication of the level of service there. I chose Norrie's because a restaurant would serve alcohol, and yes, I drank any dregs from dirty glasses. After watching and working and gaining their trust, I swiped a bottle of whiskey and hid it in my backpack. Grandma Muir helpfully transported me back to Gull Cottage. I dutifully asked if I could walk the shore and simply watch the water, and she agreed.

Not having drunken much in some time helped me to achieve a rapid buzz. I almost felt good. Then Grandma was running down the beach to me in those ridiculous high heels. I couldn't understand how she found me so quickly, hidden as I was among the rocks. Because she was elderly, I was certain I could outrun her, but when I tried, something held me. There was nothing visible there but it scared the hell out of me, like I was being held in place by those frat boys. I knew I wasn't drunk enough to be imagining things. I was kicking and screaming and dropped the bottle. She picked it up and poured it out into the sand. As soon as she had poured it, whatever was holding me let go, and I fell into the sand, crying. She told me I'd pay Norrie Jr. back from my wages and would be working at the library from now on. She announced with behavior like this, it looked like all hands on deck would be required 24/7. I hiccupped "Blast," one of my mom's favorite phrases, and Grandma Muir's lips twitched as though she found the whole situation funny. That was my first month.

* * *

By the second month, I was beginning to see exactly how senile she was getting. She talked to herself frequently. Sometimes she would laugh wildly for no particular reason. It scared me a bit. We'd be building a puzzle or playing Scrabble in silence when she'd say something like, "No, I don't think it's like that all," apropos of nothing. She'd frequently do things like set out 3 mugs for coffee in the morning. It was crazy. Every Tuesday at 4 like clockwork she went to hang around in the attic and insisted I not disturb her.

I started to think she might be in worse trouble than me. I called my mom to discuss it, but she just said, "Don't worry, she's always been the eccentric imaginative type."

Mom knew exactly what to say to get my interest. I decided I needed to get to know the old lady better, but she was wily. When I asked her open ended questions that would lead a typical Canestroni into a two hour monologue, she'd tell me about the history of American ships. I knew she'd written a bunch of nautical stuff. She made a point of dragging me into the living room to look at a portrait of Gull Cottage's original owner. She grinned crookedly and whispered, "Magnificent, right?" I just agreed even though I found those cold blue eyes in the picture somewhat unnerving, like I was being watched, judged, and found lacking.

Then she regaled me with tales of his life, fascinating at first until I began to realize she couldn't possibly know some of the things she told me about him. In her solitude and loneliness, she had made him into an imaginary contemporary. It was heartbreaking.

I wasn't doing so well myself. There was nothing worth taking in any of her medicine cabinets, and without a little something, I had trouble sleeping. When I did fall asleep, I'd dream the frat boys were sneaking in my room. She came in my room one night when I was too frightened to go back to sleep. She sat on my bed and gently stroked my forehead. It relaxed me, and then I was telling my dream and next what happened at the party. I begged her not to tell my parents.

She asked, "Oh honey, how long ago did this happen?" She held me in her arms, rocking me, telling me it wasn't my fault. I fell asleep then. From that point on, I mostly had good dreams of sailing on old ships.

I woke up to hear her yelling in her room, "You will not!" "You wouldn't even know which ones were involved!" "All fraternities? Don't be an idiot!" It made me really, really need a drink.

* * *

By the third month, I didn't want to leave. Grandma got me counseling and brought me to a clinic to test for STD's. She had become my security blanket, the one who knew what to do and how to make things not so bad. I think I may have driven her a little crazy, following her all the time. I wanted her to sleep in my room or to sleep in her room myself, but she nixed that. Instead she brought me this amazing little ball of fur from the Keystone Humane Society and told me I'd need to keep it out of trouble and train it. It was a mixed breed, some sort of poodle mix with the softest curly black hair imaginable. I named it Sasha and it slept curled up in my bed with me.

Mom called and had a long talk with me. Grandma had told her everything, but she wasn't angry at me. She asked if I was looking forward to coming home, and I bluntly told her no. I couldn't have explained it back then, but the truth was I had become lost in the shuffle of a big family and a big city and found the quiet of Gull Cottage and Grandma healing.

Later Grandma told me that she, the counselor, and my parents thought I might do better to stay a year or so, but she wanted me to meet someone before I decided.

A man appeared out of nowhere, tall, with wavy gray hair, a beard, a moustache, and a bit of a paunch. I looked from him to the portrait and recognized him, but those blue eyes had grown softer, not so stern. He bowed and said, "I'm Captain Daniel Gregg. I've been waiting to meet you, Joy."

I stammered, "You're like . . . what . . . a ghost?" He nodded and put his arm possessively around Grandma's still slim waist, eyes twinkling. They glanced at each other and I saw love in their glances, mellow, ripened with time. I asked, "Should I call you Captain Gregg or Grandpa Gregg?"

I stayed. Grandpa invisibly chaperoned me on my first date, just as reassurance. He taught me to waltz, a sort of pointless exercise, but something I wanted to learn after watching them dancing together. It was as if they were one, two parts of a whole.

Every family has its secrets, the black sheep, the ghost, the things kept hidden.

* * *

**I realize I've offended someone by having the narrator refer to C.M. as a Bleep. I seriously thought about changing it, but the narrator was _remembering_ her thought from a troubled time. Her thought seemed typical for a teen faced with tough new guidelines. In the very next sentence, she underscores that C.M. was by no means a bleep. **


End file.
